


Forgiving Metal

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Floor Sex, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Praise Kink, Rimming, Safewords, Sub Bucky Barnes, Subspace, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 21:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2203530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Fill for the prompt:</b> <i>I'd love a Bucky/Steve fic, post-WS, where Bucky finds the mask comforting, especially in sub-space? Maybe it helps him reach sub-space. Maybe he uses it outside the bedroom, too, as a safety blanket kind of device--when it's on, he doesn't have to talk, doesn't have to choose, doesn't have to *think*, he can just be. No humiliation, lots of praise kink and Steve supporting Bucky in and out of bed, but def. include sex!</i></p><p>*points up* Basically that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgiving Metal

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the [Leave It On: a Masked Ficathon](http://maskonplz.livejournal.com/507.html).

It is dark behind the mask, light tinted and blocked out and no peripheral vision whatsoever. Even in the middle of the day, the burnished sun streaming in through the window looks like soft moonlight, the room dark like a comforting memory from childhood. 

Steve's fingers are warm on his neck, brushing just under the line of the mask, over his pulse. Bucky can feel his heartbeat, can hear it in his ears; just a steady, rhythmic _thud, thud, thud_. 

(Sometimes his heartbeat speeds up when he's flashing back, hyperventilating, all panic and images of blood, chaos, smoke, ice, cold, sharp metal, _ice_ , and his pulse is loud in his ears then, too: but it is the sharp _tat, tat, tat, tat_ of gunfire.)

Thud. 

Thud. 

Thud. 

Like waves crashing on the shore. 

Thud. 

Thud. 

Thud. 

Like bouncing a ball off the dusty brick wall of the school building waiting for Steve to get out to lunch. 

It is soothing, almost hypnotic. And it is nothing, _nothing_ like gunfire. 

Aside from the mask, Bucky is naked to the bone. His hair falls to his chin, longer at the back where it tickles the nape of his neck – it brushes softly too where Steve's thumb is rubbing back and forth over his pulse point, catching the hair, shifting it. The sun through their window falls on his bare skin, warming him to the blood. 

Bucky lets out a soft sigh. It catches in his mask, the warm breath ghosting back over his own lips. 

'You're so good,' Steve says, mouth pressing a damp, grounding kiss to the center of Bucky's forehead. 

– He's not good. Bucky's memories only come in snatches and fits and starts. Sometimes on the tip of his tongue, frustratingly out of reach, and other times choking him, filling his throat with bile and drowning him. No good person would have a past filled with this much blood and ice. No good person _could_ –

But when Steve's lips come away, Bucky just falls forward a little bit, tilting on his knees as he tries to chase the contact. Just for now, he'll let himself believe. 

He wobbles, losing his balance, and falls forward, his hands coming out to catch himself. On all fours now, Bucky's hair falls over his cheeks, over the metal of the mask, and everything is dim, bronze light and the sound of Steve intaking breath above him, one hand hot and firm on his shoulder. The bedroom floor is solid under his knees. 

Steve takes in a noise that catches in his throat, and Bucky sees his toes tense, curl in the soft fibers of the carpet. 'Can you stay like that for a moment, Buck?' he asks, and Bucky nods, head ducking between his shoulders. 

'Yes, sir,' he says. There is no point in making it a question – he'll do whatever Steve says, faithfully, every time. The mask makes everything so simple. _Yes, sir. Thank you, sir._ There are no tough decisions, there is no pushing through one day to the next fighting to get _better_. But Steve always asks every time. Because he's Steve. 

(It is good. It is nothing like the sharp whip-crack of orders from before.)

Bucky holds his position on his hands and knees, back straight as a board. He is present in his body, aware, but not exposed. He is naked, but not _vulnerable_ exactly: just malleable. Ready to be formed to Steve's inclination. He breathes steadily, deeply, eyes locked and a little unfocussed on the floor between his hands. 

He hears – doesn't see, everything except the narrow, dim field of vision stripped from him – Steve move around his body. The hand moves away from his shoulder to stroke over the line of his back, settle in the dip just at the base of his spine. 

'God, but you're so beautiful,' Steve murmurs as he kneels down next to Bucky. 'I would love it if you would just stay down like this for hours so I could just look at you, paint on the bumps of your spine, brush my fingers through your hair. Kiss you everywhere.'

'I would, sir,' Bucky replies, his own words vibrating in the mask, tremoring into his own body. 'I'd do that.'

'Course you would,' Steve says, and leans forward to press a kiss to one little notch in Bucky's spine, just over an old scar from some old firefight that Bucky doesn't remember. He feels Steve smile against his skin, all warm breath and the lingering touch of dampness. 'Because you're perfect, such a good boy.'

Bucky feels something crawl down his spine, like insects under his skin. He lets out a soft noise of objection under his breath. 'Yellow,' he mutters as the feeling twists in his gut. Words seem to catch in his throat like the feeling of something sharp scratching at the larynx, but he knows he has to speak now. _Now_. 'Not that, those words together. Not that. They used to--'

'Shh, it's fine,' Steve murmurs in response, kissing more presses over the expanse of Bucky's back, comforting and centering. They'll talk about it more, later, probably – but for now they know its best if Bucky doesn't get stuck in old memories. 'I'm sorry, I didn't think. I won't again, I promise.'

''S fine,' Bucky says, letting his eyes drift close as he makes himself stay in the moment – dimmed light, warm sun on skin, firm ground, soft carpet under hands and knees, Steve's damp kisses down his back. 'Fine, don't worry.'

'Sorry,' Steve murmurs again. 'Are you okay, want to keep going?'

'Uh huh,' Bucky says, nodding, and then swallows – Adam’s apple shifting against the firm shape of the mask. 'Yes, sir,' he adds. ' _Please_ , sir.'

Steve smiles into his skin. 'Thank you for telling me,' he says, fingers bumping down Bucky's ribs just a touch shy of being ticklishly. 'So perfect, so good, really.'

Bucky breaths out, breaths in: comes back to the stillness. He feels like the surface of a calm ocean, absorbing in Steve's warm light, letting it glint off his bare skin. His lips are open behind the mask, just curled in the softest of smiles. 

Steve's kisses dance over the base of his spine, tease at the swell of his buttocks. Bucky can feel his arm – the flesh and blood one – shaking just a little bit from holding himself, but the strain is just a pleasant, quieting ache. He hums as Steve presses his lips lightly to the dip just above the crevice of his ass. 

'I'd love to taste you,' Steve says. His hands are coming down to pull just slightly at Bucky's ass cheeks, just _implying_ the idea of parting them. Bucky can already feel his hard cock twitching at the suggestion. He had cleaned himself thoroughly in the shower before, hoping, _hoping_ his Captain might want to. 

Steve seems to be waiting, still just kissing tenderly at Bucky's tailbone, the soft skin at the base of his spine – too tender, not close enough. 

'Please,' Bucky pants out. 'Please, sir. I've been good for you, please.'

Hot air gusts out against his receptive skin as Steve chuckles. 'You're always good,' he says, and sometimes Bucky would argue. Deny it, fight him on it. But not like this, not now. The mask on, bent over like this, on display. It makes it so much easier just to listen, to accept. Steve is his Captain, his master, his everything. Steve is right, always right. He must be right on this too. 

But he's still waiting for something, lazily kissing everywhere but where Bucky needs him. The sound reverberating in his mask, Bucky breaths out, breaths in again. Shifts a little bit, unconsciously pushing his ass back a little towards Steve, who laughs, warm and happy. 

'I can be better,' Bucky says, begging. Pleading. It's funny – it is almost unnatural for Bucky to _want_ things these days, a long forgotten skill. Usually with his mask on (with his knees on the floor or on the bed for Steve, his hands behind his back or bound at his front or moving slick over Steve's leaking cock while his Captain murmurs encouraging praise to him, or firm against the carpet like now) he is so pliant and obedient that Steve loves it, _loves it_ when he gets pushy on any matter. 

True to form, Steve just climbs over his body – a heavy, hot weight – to nudge Bucky's head up, brush his hair away and kiss his temple. 'You're already flawless,' he praises, and it's –

– it's not true, there is blood dripping through Bucky's fingers, there are wrongdoings etched on every bone that cannot be erased –

– it's like warmth and benediction and reverence and safety all at once. Bucky relaxes and sighs, hot on his own cheeks under the mask, and feels Steve kiss his way back down to the dip in his ass, again, and this time pull his cheeks apart properly and swirl his tongue over that tight, sensitive ring of muscle that makes Bucky crumble and whine every time.

He drops almost immediately forward onto his elbows as Steve laps at him slowly, tiny, teasing licks just over the rim. Can't hold himself up any longer. He pants out hot breaths and lets his forehead hit the carpet, back arching a little and hips canting involuntarily back. 

'Sorry, sorry, sorry, sir,' he gasps, automatically. Gotta stay still, just take what he's given. Just let Steve lead them, because Steve knows what is best for both of them. Be good, be so good, he just wants to be _good_.

The Captain just grins and licks flatly at his hole before pressing a wet kiss to the curve of his buttock. 'Gorgeous,' he commends him. 'God, what you do to me, Buck.' And he goes back to licking him, tongue pushing past the ring of muscle this time and beginning to slowly work his way inside, opening Bucky up under his clever, adoring mouth. 

Bucky is a trembling mess within minutes, cock curving up against his belly, leaking precum. He is collapsed against the floor, ass pushed up in the air with the cheeks held apart by Steve's strong, gentle hands, and his thighs trembling as pleasure shoots through his body. His toes are curling just a little up in the air and fists clenching, shoulders crumpled down flat on the carpet. 

His jaw, protected by the mask, is dragging on the carpet as he writhes helplessly under Steve's ministrations. He pants out breathless gasps every time Steve swirls his tongue over the rim of his hole, or probes inside, opening him with thrusting, wonderful, deep licks. 

Everything is dim, light tinted out by the goggles of the mask – but stars are exploding behind his eyes, warmth filling up his body as Steve takes him closer and closer to the edge. The sun from outside the window is warming on his skin, and his whole body feels like it is awash with sensations drawn out of him by Steve, who controls his pleasure, who – just for now – can control every part of him. 

When he gets like this, there is nothing to worry about except for the feeling of Steve building him up and taking him apart, nothing to listen to except the rumbling tone Steve's voice takes on when he pulls away to press his finger inside Bucky and massage his prostate while he murmurs endless streams of praise and adulation. 

'You're the best man I ever could have known, could have loved,' Steve says, a dreamy, distant edge to his voice like he's not just saying it for Bucky, he's saying it for himself. Saying it for the world. Saying it because it's just an innate truth, an automatic reaction like breathing or blinking. 'I'm so lucky to have you, Bucky. You're so beautiful, and wonderful, and perfect, and strong, and I love you so much. You're so good, you're so, so good.'

Letting out a long, low keening noise, Bucky feels Steve's free hand fist around his cock, jerking him with his own precum, slick and slippery. The other hand, two fingers are buried deep in his ass, making his nerve endings _explode_. But still, Bucky doesn't push; just lets the sensation build up, build upon itself as Steve touches him, trusting him to take him where he needs to go. 

'Look at you,' Steve murmurs encouragingly against his skin. 'Look at how perfect you are for me, how stunning you are when you let yourself go like this, Buck. Will you let go for me? I want to see you come, Bucky. Wanna feel you come on my fingers, wanna feel you everywhere. Will you that for me, Buck? Will you come for me?'

Bucky gasps in unsteady breaths as he nods and pants out, 'Yes, sir. Always, sir,' and spills over Steve's fist, his release hitting the soft carpet, whole body trembling. 

He comes down slowly and Steve strokes him, massages him through it, until he is just a boneless heap on the floor. 

'What did I ever do to deserve you?' Steve asks reverently, as he nudges Bucky to roll onto his back, loose and pliant. Bucky blinks up at the ceiling, everything dimmed and soft and close behind the mask, his eyes a little glassy and unfocused – but he smiles as Steve climbs up over his body to press his weight close against him and lean in to plant a series of firm, worshiping kisses over his neck, forehead and temple, and the firm, forgiving metal of the mask.


End file.
